Out of the Dark
by HurtComfortInSpace
Summary: After her ordeal in Dark Frontier, Seven's back on Voyager, but she's having trouble adapting. Happens between their return on the flier and the final scene. H/C with Doctor/Seven and Paris/Seven friendship. Trigger warning for references to disordered eating/restriction. Disclaimer: I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

The thrum and hiss as the Delta Flyer lands in the shuttle bay should be agreeable to Seven, but they trigger only a rush of apprehension, like acid in her gut.

The sensation is irrational. She is home. Safe for now. In any reasonable person this would provoke feelings of pleasure, of satisfaction.  
Her body evidently does not consider her a reasonable person.

Ensign Paris is rejoicing somewhat loudly about their return, anticipating his reunion with Lieutenant Torres. No doubt he found it difficult to adapt to her absence during these last few weeks. It is doubtful that anyone had similar feelings about Seven's absence.

But they came for her. That is sufficient. It should be sufficient.

The door opens, and Ensign Paris departs immediately, throwing her a cursory grin as he does. The Captain and Lieutenant Tuvok also head to the hatch, the Captain pausing a second to smile at her before leaving

"Seven?" It's the Doctor. She'd almost forgotten him. "Come on."

He offers her a hand up, but she ignores it, rising unaided to her feet. The world blurs like a sensor-sweep incorrectly focused.

She blinks rapidly and her surroundings return to their usual levels of clarity.

Vaguely aware of the Doctor at her side, she stumbles out of the flyer. The bay is familiar and airy, but too bright after days upon days of shadows and green flashes. The Doctor nudges her elbow, gesturing towards the door, and she follows his direction.

_Hiss-click_. The doors open and there are people, so many people. The flyer crew yes, but also Commander Chakotay, Neelix, Ensign Kim, even Lieutenant Torres. They all turn to her, but their faces are a fog of colour. The air is so hot. The lights too bright.

Someone says something, steps forward, but it's too late. Seven passes out.

* * *

_"Doctor, what's wrong with her?"_

_"Did the Borg do something?"_

_"Please, give her some space." A hand on her shoulder, and a familiar, quiet, beep-beep-beep. "She's coming to."_

Seven opens her eyes to a mass of grey above, and leaning into it, the Doctor's familiar face. He gives her a small smile. "Seven? How are you feeling?"

The others are still there. They hover on the edge of her vision. Waiting to reprimand her for her foolishness? Her betrayal? She bolts upright, but the effort sends a red spike through her head and stomach, and she can't keep from gasping.

"No more of that." The Doctor scolds, but gently.

"Is she alright?" That is from the Captain. Seven tries to focus on her, to respond, but remaining conscious seems to require all her attention. The air feels thin.

The Doctor doesn't reply at first. He puts an arm under Seven's shoulders, lifting her to her feet and holding on when it becomes clear that her legs are useless at present. Then, to the others: "She will be. However, she's been through quite an ordeal so I'd like to request no visitors to Sickbay for the next forty-eight hours. She needs to rest."

The captain replies, but the words are a blur of sound. Then Lieutenant Torres is inputting something into a panel, and Seven and the Doctor are beamed away.

* * *

When they materialize in sickbay, the world blinks out again for Seven. It could only have been for a few seconds, but when she comes to a second time, the Doctor has scooped her up and is carrying her across the bay. She opens her mouth to protest, but even that small gesture makes her vision lurch and twist green, and before she can catch her breath, the Doctor has put her down on a biobed. It's in the small bay, furthest from the door.

Planting her hands on the mattress, she takes a deep breath and swings her legs back over, trying to disregard the way her vision narrows to a thin line. The Doctor doesn't protest but puts a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Take a moment," he says, squeezing. "Just breathe."

Such a strange thing to say. As if she wouldn't be breathing.

Apparently satisfied that she won't be getting up right now—an assumption she longs to correct him of, but fears herself incapable of doing so at present—the Doctor departs, vanishing into the staff area behind his office. Seven stares blankly at the wall. She always seems to end up back here.

Something _thuds_ gently onto her shoulders and she flinches. The Doctor is back already and has wrapped a blanket around her. "Here, hold this," he says softly. "You're shivering."

She is. She hadn't noticed before. Gripping the blanket, she tries to think of a retort, but her mind is inadequate to the task.

The Doctor steps in front of her, one hand tilting her head up. She meets his gaze, trying to summon pride or strength or anything that might stop him looking at her with something horribly close to pity, but she's empty. No fuel left for petty emotions.

A drone again after all. A _mindless automaton_.

"Hmm." The Doctor's hum breaks her out of her grey misery. He moves his hand to her forehead briefly, then to the side of her neck. Taking her temperature, her pulse.

"Why are you doing that?" The words escape her out of habit, a vague instinct to question, independent of any real curiosity. "You have more sophisticated means of taking readings."

He smiles slightly. "True. But my instruments tend to make you a little tense. An effect I'd rather avoid right now."

_I am not_ tense. But the thought too, lacks emotion. "Now?"

"You're in shock, Seven. Psychologically at least."

She frowns. "No." A longer sentence feels needed, but the words are far away from her, and her vocal subprocessor seems incapable of rendering them into speech at a distance.

He doesn't argue with her. Instead he turns to a nearby trolley—when did he bring that over?—and picks up a hypospray. Her eyes follow it as it seems to float across the dim, oddly lurching room . . .

"Seven?" The Doctor is suddenly in front of her again, his hands on her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

She stares at him, swallowing rapidly.

"Of course not." And he snatches a bowl from a nearby tray.

* * *

After that unpleasantness, she's exhausted, and wants nothing more than to find a dark corner where she can sit and _not_ think. But the Doctor appears to have other ideas. After injecting her with a couple of hyposprays—she doesn't know what's in them, and is too tired to ask—he leaves again briefly, and returns with a set of scrubs. He puts a hand under her elbow, tugs. "Come on."

_Where?_ She eases her feet to the floor and stands, pleasantly surprised when her legs take her weight. But the Doctor guides her across sickbay with a hand on her arm anyway.

Oh. The bathroom. The Doctor taps the controls at the side and the door slides open.

"Here." He presses the scrubs into her arms. "Take a sonic shower. You have ten minutes and not a second longer." At her frown, he adds more gently, "It'll do you good to wash the remnants of the cube off."

_Nonsense. _Her mind protests. _Molecular remnants of the poly-alloy that_—but she shuts it down. Nods.

He's frowning at her now. "Ten minutes. Don't lock the door."

She drifts inside, the door _hiss-click_ing behind her.

Logically there's no merit in what the Doctor said. There are no visible remnants of the cube on her, save for the neural processing adjunct, which presumably will have to be surgically removed at some point_. _And any molecular residue will not be removed by a simple sonic shower.

Yet there is something satisfying about the thrum of the sonic pulses against her skin. Somehow she feels lighter than she has in weeks, which is ridiculous. She may have lost some body mass while on the cube, but certainly she has lost none in the last few minutes.

Nevertheless, her skull feels almost buoyant, as if it might float away. She sinks down to sit on the floor, holding her head somewhat gingerly.

_Thud thud thud_. She jumps, anxiety spiking through her veins. _Phasers-drones-attack_

"Seven?" No, it's only the Doctor. "Are you alright in there? Time's up." His voice is gentle, but there's a thrum underneath it, not unlike the sonic pulses.

"Seven?" He prompts again.

"I— just a moment." Grabbing the rail on the back wall, she pulls herself up on legs suddenly weak. Whatever was in the Doctor's hyposprays must have worn off. She leans against the wall, drawing in a deep breath. Then reaches for the scrubs.

* * *

She feels oddly vulnerable, padding barefoot across sickbay, half-supported by the Doctor who was not convinced that she could walk unaided. (And his concern is perhaps justified.) But she has grown used to vulnerability lately, as a fragile human amongst thousands of armoured drones. And if she falls here, the Doctor will catch her. She won't be yanked up, silently reprimanded for her weakness by a bruising metal hand. She is pathetic enough to be grateful for that.

When they reach 'her' biobed, he helps her up onto it (it seems a lot higher without her shoes), and she does not protest when he lifts her legs up onto it after her. He raises the head of the biobed and she is secretly glad when he presses her lightly back against it. The room seems to consist of soft eddies of gold and blue, and supported like this, she can watch them with no fear of falling.

But again, the Doctor appears to have something else in mind. Pulling the blanket she discarded earlier up over her, he gives her shoulder a reassuring pat. "Wait here." His face blurs into beige clouds and a wisp of a smile before he retreats to his office, already talking to someone on his communicator.

It's so quiet here. She'd forgotten how quiet it could be on a ship of just a hundred and fifty humanoids. (Her brain tries to chime in with a more exact count, but she dismisses it.) On the cube, the hum of the collective was constantly at the back of her mind. A chorus she was excluded from. A song, the words of which she couldn't quite catch.

And even now, after everything, part of her still wants to hear them. Always will.

But as a piece apart from the whole, the hum had been maddening. And added to the groaning of metal, the clunk of metal feet, to the guilt and the pain and the loss, it had been unbearable.

It is a relief to be somewhere quiet again.

_Hiss-click_. Sickbay's doors have opened. She leans forward, swaying a little when gravity doesn't seem to keep up. She can't see who it is though; the Doctor's office is in the way.

_Likely not a coincidence._

The Doctor is speaking to someone, but she can't make out what he's saying, or the other voice.  
_  
Hiss-click_. The doors have shut again. The Doctor reappears, carrying a tray.

"Here you go," he says cheerfully as he reaches her, setting the tray down across her knees. "The mess hall had closed for the night, but when I reminded Mr. Neelix who'd missed out, he was only too happy to bring you some leftovers. Don't worry," he adds. "I meant what I said earlier. No visitors. Even if Mr. Neelix is your morale officer."

She smiles slightly. It is good to know that Neelix does not seem to consider her a traitor. But his efforts at cheer are often fatiguing at best, and maddening at worst.

The Doctor taps her leg. "Eat."

She's been trying not to look at the tray on her lap. Under the Doctor's expectant eye, she does so now, and is vaguely relieved to see a bowl of bland, yellow paste, a similarly unspectacular bread roll, and a glass of water. Neelix knows her preferences, but often ignores them.

Still the idea of eating, of assimilating even non-sentient plant matter, seems grotesque, and she can't bring herself to touch any of it.

"Seven." The Doctor squeezes her blanket-covered ankle. "You need to eat something."

She shakes her head, her stomach twisting. "I'm not hungry." She pushes the tray away an inch.

"I didn't ask if you were," he replies with undeniable truth. "But I'm a little concerned that you aren't. The readings I took of you on the Flyer indicate that you're malnourished. Did the Borg not feed you?"

Feed her, like she was a child. "The collective—" _A drone grabbing her roughly, injecting a calculated dose of vitamins and calories into her neck_. "—they had other things to concern themselves with. As should you."

"You're my patient, Seven," he reminds her. Then, perhaps seeing the cold fear in her face, "and my friend. I want to help you."

"You can't," she says dully. Bluntly.

The Doctor watches her for a moment, his face inscrutable. He taps her ankle once more. "As I'm the doctor here, why don't you let me be the judge of that."

She shuts her eyes.

"Let's start with something small. Can you drink the water? You're very dehydrated, and the fluids I gave you earlier will only go partway to addressing that."

She wants to. But the idea of swallowing anything still feels repulsive, and she shakes her head.

"Why not?" When she doesn't answer, he sighs. "When did you last eat or drink?"

She opens her eyes, stares at the wall ahead. "Before I left Voyager. The collective… they had other ways of ensuring I remain functional."

"Which were?" His voice is neutral.

"They injected me with something. Nutritional matter. Fluids."

"Regularly?"

She looks down at the tray. Her guts lurch. "At first."

"And later? Seven?"

She meets his gaze blankly. "Later, I would not let them."

* * *

Poor Seven! Part two is now up. I'd love to hear your feedback, as I'm currently plotting out a couple of other Voyager H/C stories.


	2. Chapter 2

The gentle hum of the ship's power conduits seems somehow louder in the low light, illogical as that is. Perhaps her auditory processors are malfunctioning.

The Doctor seems to have given up his attempt to make her eat and drink for now. He has dimmed the lights and left her again with instructions to rest.

But that seems impossible. Now that there is no longer danger to force her mind into the present, it has begun to analyse recent events. To replay them over and over. And she is too fatigued, too _weak_, to bring her thoughts to order as she should.

When she closes her eyes, even just to blink, she sees them. The people she failed. The helpless, frightened members of species 10026, some already half-gone, deadened with fear. Others still fighting. The man whose escape she thoughtlessly thwarted. She could have given him a few more seconds of freedom, but she forgot where she was, and so doomed him.

The few she'd saved—not saved really, but was allowed to release—were only a tiny fragment of a shattered whole. Who knew if the Borg would leave them be now? The Borg are not vindictive in the way humans can be, but they are aggressive. Punishing if it suits their purpose.

Other memories are rising, like bile in her throat. Her father. Papawith dead eyes in his pallid, swollen face. Her stomach twists, and she has to gasp to keep from vomiting. The memory is a current that burns through her, makes her shake.

She left him.

No matter that he has long outlived a drone's usual lifespan, and that trying to save him would certainly have killed him. No matter that there had been no logical way to retrieve him. He is still her papa, and leaving him will forever head the list of wrongs for which she can never be forgiven.

Her lungs spasm, her stomach too, and she curls up, gasping.

"Seven?"

The hand on her arm sends a jolt through her, and she bolts upright, pulls away. It's the Doctor of course. Hurt flashes through his features, but it's quickly replaced by concern.

She wants to reassure him, but her chest tightens as if the muscles were infused with metal again, and she's so dizzy. Sickbay blurs, and there are green flashes. Pale faces.

"Seven, I need you to take some deep breaths." The Doctor's voice cuts through the memories. It's an order.

She tries to obey, but her lungs tighten further. Black starts to creep into her vision. She's dying.

Perhaps it is what she deserves.

Lights come on. There's a clatter. The Doctor is speaking again, his words a mess of sound. Then there's a sharp pain on the side of her neck, a hiss, and suddenly her lungs ease. She gulps in the air. Her vision slowly clears, though her head continues to spin.

The Doctor doesn't attempt to touch her again, but he does raise the head of the biobed. She gratefully leans back against it. She's still shaking. She can't stop.

There's silence for the moment. The Doctor turns to his tray, apparently tidying his instruments. She focuses on breathing, on forcing her treacherous pulse back to something approaching normal. Her cortical array, accessible now, sends her numbers: _120 bpm, 114, 107, 98, 92 . . ._

It is a few minutes before the Doctor turns around. By that point she has regained some semblance of control, though shivers occasionally rattle through her and she's exhausted. So exhausted that humiliation doesn't even sting her when the Doctor pulls the discarded blanket up over her once more, or when he lowers the biobed to its usual position. She only curls into herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Do you want to tell me what happened just now?" The Doctor's voice is light, but there's the soft note of concern makes it impossible to answer him. She shakes her head.

That his sigh is a short one shows that he expected nothing else. "I could give you a stronger sedative? It'd help you rest. And eating would help too."

She shakes her head once more.

The sigh is a little longer this time. "Very well. Computer, reduce lights by eighty percent." A _beep_ from the computer. "You're safe now, Seven. Whatever happened, it's over."

_Safe. _What a strange word. And to reassure _her_.

She's trembling again. She takes a deep breath, forces her disobedient muscles to stillness.

His shrug is almost audible. "Get some sleep," he half-orders, and she hears him start to move away.

Panic spikes through her. Illogical. Childish. Unstoppable. She opens her eyes, forces out the words, "Wouldn't regeneration be more efficient?" It's all she can think of to say. But the panic intensifies at the idea of going near Borg technology, even her own, safe alcove in the cargo bay, presuming it's still there. So she's relieved when the Doctor turns and shakes his head.

"Not tonight. Your cybernetic systems can manage for another day or two. Sleep will do you more good right now."

She simply nods. _Don't leave_.

He frowns, then gestures to his office. "If you need anything, I'll be right in there. Try to rest."

A minute later, she hears him order the lights in his office to maximum illumination, and sees him pull his chair in front of the window, before he begins to type into a padd.

Seven shuts her eyes.

* * *

A gentle _beep beep beep_ wakes her. She blinks open her eyes to find a red-and-grey clad figure hovering next to her bed.

"Sorry, Seven," Ensign Paris says softly. "The Doctor asked me to check your vitals."

Rested enough to be embarrassed by her vulnerability, she pushes herself to a sitting position, only for the world to lurch again. Ensign Paris grabs her shoulder, saving her from an undignified fall. "Take it easy there, soldier. You're on medical leave for the next few days. You've got nowhere to go fast."

Ridiculous. Remaining unproductive so long will only compound the crew's anger with her. No doubt many still regard her as a traitor. She shakes her head. "I am undamaged. Able to return to duty."

He snorts, "Nice try, Seven. She flinches as he raises his tricorder again, but he merely twists it round and shows her the display. "Your blood sugar's on the floor, your core temperature is low, and your immune system's depressed. Not to mention that it looks like you haven't slept for a week, not counting the last few hours. The Doc's not going to release you yet."

The screen is a blur. Her eyes are full of liquid. _Pathetic. You are weak. _She looks away, rubs her eyes.

Her weakness has not gone unnoticed however. "Hey." Ensign Paris puts the tricorder down on a nearby tray, then tentatively puts a hand on her scrubs-clad shoulder. "It's nothing to worry about. A few decent meals, a good night's sleep, maybe a little time in your alcove, and I'm sure you'll be back to the Seven we all know and love."

"The _mindless automaton_, you mean," she snarls, the flash of anger almost a relief.

Paris flinches. "I shouldn't have said that," he acknowledges. "I'm sorry."

Her anger snaps off. The idea of someone apologizing to her is repugnant. "It is of no consequence," she mutters. "It has been proven true enough." She twists away from him and lies down. If she is not to be released, perhaps she can at least gain some solitude. She will no longer give in to her pathetic need for companionship.

Ensign Paris doesn't seem eager to leave however. She can feel his eyes on her, as illogical as that idea is.

After a moment he sighs. "You know, no one blames you."

She twists back towards him. His face is inscrutable. "What do you mean," she says at last.

Cautiously, but with his usual, unconscious, insinuating familiarity, he sits on the end of her biobed. She shifts her feet aside on reflex.

"I once pretended to be a traitor," he says, staring not at her, but at the wall. "Before you came aboard. The Captain and Tuvok needed help to root out a spy, and given my record prior to Voyager . . . well let's just say that no one would have been surprised if it had been the truth back then.

"I am sure both Lieutenant Torres and Ensign Kim had faith in your loyalty, regardless of your conduct," she murmurs, surprised at her own instinct to reassure. Ensign Paris glances at her, eyebrows raised.

"Well, B'Elanna's a special case, and Harry's always been a soft touch," he says at last. "But my point is, I made it convincing. I riled up anyone who so much as said good morning to me for a month. I skipped out on my duties. There was evidence planted in the database. It was pretty damn believable. And it worked. Hell, even Neelix believed I was a traitor for a while. But you know what? The second the truth came out, I was welcomed back aboard like— well not like it had never happened. Things were better, because people finally realised that they shouldn't judge me by past mistakes; they'd seen what I was willing to sacrifice for Voyager." His hand touches her shoulder again, stays there. "And now they've seen what you're willing to sacrifice too."

"I sacrificed nothing." Her voice is hollow, even to her own ears. "I was not even assimilated. Others were, and I could not even—"

But she cannot speak of that. The memory swells behind her eyes like blood from a cut, and she bites her lip to keep from losing herself again.

Paris is quiet for a moment. No doubt thinking of some irritating platitude. But he surprises her. "Look, I don't know what happened on the cube. No doubt you saw some pretty awful things, and maybe you think you should have done something differently. I don't know. But I do know that you've spent the last couple of years clawing your life back from them, and you were willing to give up all of that for us. And none of us are going to forget that.'

"The crew despises me." At the back of her mind, something spikes at the childish response. But she's so tired. Her father's mottled face hovers just behind her eyes, and it is taking all her mental energy to keep the memory from overwhelming her.

"Despises you? Nah." Ensign Paris squeezes her shoulder. "People were confused when you left, a few were upset. But mostly everyone was just worried for you. They still are."

She sits up. "Why would they have anxiety concerning me? I betrayed them."

"You _saved_ them," he corrects her. "Us. We'd all be drones by now if it wasn't for you. And everyone knows it." His mouth twitches. "Even B'Elanna is pretty shamefaced about having doubted you. She's got a pretty big apology to make about some rummaging she did in your personal files after you left, though you didn't hear it from me."

"It is unnecessary," Seven says automatically, though irritation sparks down her spine.

"Anyway, we're just glad to have you back. Neelix especially. He has all these plans for a welcome-home party, but the Doctor has vetoed the idea until you're on your feet again."

"Then perhaps I will remain on leave for a few days," she replies tartly.

Ensign Paris grins. "Good plan. But I warn you, Neelix pretty determined. The Doctor can only hold out against him so long." He stands up. "So get some rest. Do you need anything?"

She shakes her head.

He smiles. "It's good to have you back, Seven." And with that he retrieves his tricorder, and heads towards the Doctor's office.

Sitting upright feels more tiring than usual, and her head is beginning to feel light again. She lies back down. Draws the blanket over her shoulder.

Tom Paris is a curious individual. But perhaps he is an insightful one.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

When she wakes next, sickbay's lights have returned to their daytime level of illumination, and she can hear the Doctor trading gossip with someone—presumably a patient—on the other side of the room.

She sits up cautiously. Her head spins a little, but less so than last night. And the room no longer seems foggy, or far away.

"Computer, what is the time?" She asks softly.

"Ship time is eleven hundred hours."

She would usually be in astrometrics by zero eight hundred. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, and eyes the ground. Returning to her quiet lab appeals for a moment, but anxiety bubbles in her stomach at the idea of being alone with her thoughts once more. Of facing the crew. And though her fatigue has lessened slightly, the lingering heaviness in her limbs and continuing disorientation makes it doubtful that she could reach the lab, let alone work a shift. Besides, the Doctor would probably prevent her from leaving. He is unlikely to allow her to leave until his concerns for her wellbeing have been alleviated.

She longs to make her own decisions once more. But how can the situation be remedied?

The initial answer is simple. Its execution will be more challenging.

She slips off the bed, hanging on for a moment when the room lurches and white flashes behind her eyes. But her legs take her weight, and she stumbles, only a little unsteadily, over to the replicator.

The Doctor is treating Crewman Chang for some kind of burn. He catches her eye over Chang's shoulder, and she flushes. Chang works in engineering. She would prefer for him not to return there with gossip about her.

But the Doctor says nothing. Just gives her a slight smile and returns to his conversation.

The Doctor is often disparaged as tactless by the crew. It is not always an accurate assessment.

She leans against the wall, keys the replicator on. "Plomeek soup." She says softly.

The bowl shimmers into being, along with the appropriate utensil, and Seven takes it, before walking carefully back to her biobed. She sits on cross-legged on it, and grips the bowl, letting the warmth diffuse into her skin.

She refused to let the Borg offer her nourishment because she hoped to deprive them of their new resource. Any reduction in what she was, in her mental and physical prowess, had meant less of her to be used against humanity.

And perhaps, in a way, it had felt like penance.

But she is on Voyager now, and work awaits her. There is no time for self-indulgent notions like redemption and penance. The crew requires her to function efficiently so she can help them get home.

And maybe—Ensign Paris's smile flickers in her memory, the Doctor's too—some of them, would like her to function optimally for her own benefit. Her friends.

It would be inefficient to distract them with needless anxiety. She picks up the spoon.

And taking a deep breath, she begins to eat.

* * *

The end! I hope you enjoyed this episode tag. I'd love to hear your feedback. I'm currently working on a B'Elanna/Seven friendship story with plenty of whumping. Let me know if you'd like to see it!


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